Cusp of Change – by EDD. B JENNINGS

I, too, once stood upon the cusp of change. A young woman I wanted badly invited me to attend a midnight mass on a Christmas Eve so long ago. Even now, the memory of those elegant tendrils of light brown hair brushing that too perfect cheek inflames me. Standing between us was her hatred of the symbols of my violent past.

She wanted the man who traveled wilderness to look at rare orchids, not the man who could make a double action revolver talk.

Could I do this? Yes. I could go into that church with her on my arm. I could take that first step. Just as I tightened the four-in-hand in the blood-red silk of my tie, the mirror caught the hurt in my long dead grandmother’s eyes from the portrait across the room. I hadn’t meant to look. She was never the same after…